


A Kind of Courage

by PrioritiesSorted



Series: A Kind of Courage [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, fem!Jaime, male!Brienne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-28 14:41:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrioritiesSorted/pseuds/PrioritiesSorted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Consolidating the Jaime/Bryn chapters of this AU into one chaptered fic:</p><p>“You don’t know if you want to fight me or fuck me; pick either, it does not matter. They will both taste the same, and sweeter than your honour ever could.”</p><p>“And what do you know of honour?”</p><p>“That it is bitter.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 'Til Bitter Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> A series of vignettes exploring what the asoiaf universe would look like, were Jaime Lannister a woman. Also featuring Cersei and Brienne as men, this series will cover key scenes from the end of A Clash of Kings to the end of A Storm of Swords. 
> 
> I've tried to make everything about the AU elements fairly clear within the story, but if you have any questions feel free to ask!

The room they had her locked in was better than she expected, and certainly better than the rotting piece of cloth that the Tully men had half-heartedly used to cover her on their journey to the Stark encampment. She felt the chains were a little much, though after her failed escape attempt she was not entirely surprised. At least her room, with its single tiny window above an uncomfortable pallet bed, was not a prison cell. She’d always imagined the Starks to be the sort of family who would throw their prisoners into a dungeon, no matter who they were; though even to the Starks, the King’s mother might demand a certain level of comfort.

_If they only knew how much my son is longing for my return, they’d have thrown me in the Trident by now._

She wondered how much it irked Lady Catelyn to be forced to treat a gilded whore with such civility, especially one who had so shamed her husband’s sister. Jaime doubted anyone at Riverrun would appreciate that Robert Baratheon’s inability to get a son on his Stark bride was not, in fact, her fault. 

She smiled to herself, if only to take comfort in the knowledge that she could still fool them with it. None of her captors had so far thought to ask why she was travelling away from King’s Landing at a time when her son most needed guidance. _Not that he would have taken it if I were there to give it to him._

The Ned Stark situation had been badly handled; though she knew that her hands were far from clean, she was not so stupid as to want him dead.

“I hope you are pleased with yourself, Joff. Now it is the Northmen as well as the Riverlords who are baying for our blood.” She had raged, but Joffrey paid her no mind.

“Then let them bay; what are a few paltry Northmen to a King?” he had boasted, and Jaime had fumed. It seemed her son was no longer a boy, but a man who would disregard her as easily as the rest of his sex.

“It was the Northmen who won this throne from the Mad King, but then you wouldn’t remember that. I doubt they are pleased to have swapped one tyrant for another.”

“You dare to address me like that? You may be my mother but I am still the King and you forget your place. Most whores would be executed for speaking to me like that.” His voice was low and soft, full of menace in a way that Robert’s had never been. She could not tell, in that moment, whether he reminded her of her father, or of Aerys.

“You are quite right, though most bastards would be similarly treated for daring to call themselves King.”

For a second she thought he would hit her, and certainly his hand twitched as he lurched forward, but he only hissed,

“You will be gone from court by this evening. You will not see Tommen or Myrcella before you go. If you try anything to prevent this, I will give you to The Mountain. Do you understand?”

 _He is coward,_ she thought, _he fears to lay a hand on me, who matters so little. My son is a coward._

She nodded, inclining her golden head in deference to her King.

“Perfectly, Your Grace.”

_Yes, if only they could have seen him then, they would not be so anxious to keep me comfortable._

Jaime wondered briefly whether all sons were the same, whether Catelyn Stark had ever looked into her Young Wolf’s eyes and seen something frightening there. Almost as if the mere thought had summoned her, a terrifying idea in itself _,_ the room was flooded with light as Lady Catelyn pushed open the door.

 _She is quite the she-wolf,_ Jaime noted. After all that she had seen and heard of Catelyn Stark, Jaime did not expect her glare to be so cold. She was prepared for a barrage of accusations; the execution of her husband, her son’s fall and the later attempt on his life, but instead the lady only said,

“You are aware that you killed two of my guardsmen when you attempted to escape?”

“The fact has not passed me by, my Lady. Have you come to thank me?  They really were dreadful guards; you’re doing rather well to be shot of them.” Jaime told her, trying not to let her shock show through. It must have worked, for Lady Catelyn’s jaw tightened, though anger did not melt the ice in her voice.

“One of those men was Lord Karstark’s son. He is demanding your head.”

Jaime smiled.

“I imagine his son wanted something similar, else he would not have let me get close enough to steal his dagger. Men are so easy to kill, it’s almost funny.” She did not allow Lady Stark time to speak before continuing, “But I have been most remiss, I ought to offer you a seat. I’m afraid I have no chair, but you could sit with me here on the bed.”

The look she received in response would have been cutting if Jaime cared for the opinions of Starks.

“I am quite well where I am” was the only reply she received. Jaime shrugged.

“As you will. But if you didn’t come for a cosy gossip then what are you here for? I assume your son sent you. Does he think my cunt will make him King?”

“His men made him King. He has no need for whores.”

“Come now my Lady, I think that you and I, of all people, know that even the most honourable men have need of whores.”

“Whores have need of men as much as men have need of whores.”

Jaime laughed, _thus speaks a woman who has never been anyone’s whore._

“Well then, perhaps it was _my_ need that summoned Robert Baratheon; it called out to him as he walked the Red Keep. It was my need that made him take my face in those big hands of his and say ‘you are a pretty one, Kingslayer; a pity you’d kill me as soon as look at me. Or could I tame you, little lion?’ He asked me not to make a habit of Kingslaying as he stripped me of my smallclothes, and how I _needed_ it.”

 _I couldn’t keep that promise, though,_ Jaime thought. She was sorry for it, but only that she had been forced to make strongwine her weapon; Robert would have suited a golden knife in his breast.

“Enough. I have questions I would ask you.”

“And why should I answer?”

“To save your life.”

That was surprising. Perhaps the Starks were not above killing a hostage after all, unless the woman was bluffing. It was possible, but Lady Catelyn gave nothing away.

_She would do well at court, though she would not like to think so._

“You think I fear death?”

“You should. After the life you’ve lived you may expect a place deep in the Seven Hells, if the Gods are just.”

“The same gods who watched as my dear son took off your husband’s head? Tell me my lady, if the Gods are just, why is the world so full of pain and injustice?”

“Because of women like you.”

“There are no women like me. There is only me.” Finally a flash of emotion passed across Lady Catelyn’s face; disgust, Jaime thought, or perhaps pity.

“Are you going to give me answers or not?”

“I don’t know. Are you going to give me some?” If Lady Stark wanted answers, she was going to have to provide some of her own. She had to know they were safe. _Caesare, my children, Tyrion._

“Do you have no shame?”

“Less than you, I imagine.”

“Will you answer truthfully?”

“Truthfully? If you so wish, but I warn you that you may not like the taste of it.”

“You think I am not strong enough to take your truth? I assure you that I am.” She didn’t look it; war had tired her more than the North ever seemed to.  Jaime thought it best not to tell her so.

“As you will. What would you know, my lady?”

“Is Caesare Joffrey’s father?”

“Yes. Tommen and Myrcella too.” There was little point in denying it; Jaime had a feeling Lady Stark already had the answers she claimed to seek.  

“You admit to being your brother’s lover?”

“I have always loved my brother, and it seems you owe me an answer. Does my family live? My children? My brothers?” _My father? But he would not ask after me._

“They do.” The curt answer was enough to lift the blackness that had been crowding Jaime’s thoughts; part of her had felt sure that if harm had come to her family she would have been told, but still, the blackness of night had a queer way of pushing endless bloody scenarios into the space behind her eyes. What was it the Red Priest used to say? _The night is dark and full of terrors._

“What else would you know, my lady?”

 “How did my son Bran come to fall?”

“My brother flung him from a window.” It had been necessary.

“You are a mother. What manner of creature are you to wish such a fate upon another woman’s child?”

For the first time since Lady Stark had entered her cell, Jaime felt a flash of anger.

“I may well ask you the same question, Lady Stark.”

“I have never wished harm upon Tommen or Myrcella, and nothing upon Joffrey that he did not-“

“But Tyrion, Lady Stark. You do not deny that you and sister would have pushed him from the Moon Door as surely as Caesare pushed your son from that tower.”

“That was different.”

“How? Bran was a danger to our family just you believe Tyrion to be a danger to yours. I will freely admit that I am a startlingly poor sister; to my brothers I am a lover and a mother, and there is nothing I would not do for them. I may not have pushed Tyrion into the world, but I held his tiny hands through his first crooked steps, I soothed him when he cried, I protected him from his father and his brother; Tyrion is mine just as Bran is yours. You would have seen my child dead as gladly as I would have seen yours.”

_You would have relished it, where I never did._

“Bran never wished your family ill, yet you and your brother sent a catspaw to murder him.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, my lady, I am blessed with a pair of brothers.”

“Either. Both.”

“Did we now? I won’t deny Caesare and I spoke of it, but you were with him day and night, not to mention those direwolves; we decided it wasn’t worth the effort when the boy seemed like to die anyway.” She would not mention how she begged for his life. _She would not believe me if I did. I slew a King, after all, why should I care for her brat?_

“I warn you; if you lie to me then this session is at an end.”

 “I have freely admitted to carrying my brother’s children and seeing your son flung from a window; tell me why I should lie in this. My brothers and I did not send that man.”

“You swear it?”

“On my honour.”

“Forgive me if I doubt a vow sworn on the honour of a whore.”

“Ah, but I am an honest whore.”

“Then why did the assassin carry Tyrion’s blade?” Now there was a conundrum.

“What blade was this?”

“It was so long,” she said, indicating with her hands, “plain, but finely made, with a blade of Valyrian steel and a dragonbone hilt. Your brother won it from Lord Baelish at the tourney on Prince Joffrey’s name day.”

 _That is a lie, though she does not know it._ Were she a little more like her smallest brother, Jaime would have wagered on its origins; she had never trusted Petyr Baelish, and she pitied Lady Stark’s folly for putting her faith in the man.

“I can’t say that I know the knife, but I do know that Tyrion was complaining of loss on Joff’s name day; it seems your sources have lied to you. As far as I recall, Tyrion wagered against the Knight of the Flowers and paid sorely for it. Your Bran might have as well, were you not there.”

“Are you trying to deceive me?” Lady Stark’s question was sharper than Jaime had expected, and it took her aback for a moment before the thought occurred to her;

“It must hurt, to know that your little mockingbird has been singing false notes. You must have been awfully fond of him to let him fuck you before you went north, though I wonder at your choice; a man known as Littlefinger would not be my first thought for a bedmate.”

“And I wonder that you make such effort to slander me when there is no-one else to hear it.”

“My dear Lady Stark, I am only repeating what others have said.” _What Littlefinger himself said, would he really be so brazen? Yes._ “If I were you I dare say I’d be angry too; why should it be the men alone who are allowed to break their marriage vows?”

“You have no right to speak of those vows.”

Jaime’s chains rattled as she stood. A whore’s pride was worth little to a woman like Lady Stark, perhaps, but it was pride nonetheless. She did not cut a particularly impressive figure; thin from weeks of imprisonment and still wearing the travelling dress that she had been captured in, she did not look like the mother of a King, but she was still a lioness.

“Oh don’t I?” she smiled, “Perhaps I never swore them, but I never broke them either, which is more than can be said for many men; even your husband. Does not that strike you as odd, that a whore should keep her vows better than the honourable Ned Stark?”

“You cannot keep what you have not sworn.” Lady Catelyn’s lips were almost white with rage, and Jaime could not resist.

“Oh assure you, a whore has her vows the same as any man; to keep my children safe, and do whatever it takes to ensure that. Your husband failed in that as well, and so the whore’s advantage grows.” 

Catelyn struck her then. It was nothing to the blows that Robert had dealt, but still her cheek stung.

_She did what my own son could not; what a proud lion he is, compared with this wolf._

Jaime did not speak again, merely watched Catelyn’s face as she seemed to struggle with herself. Eventually she must have come to a decision as she shouted,

 “Bryn.”

The door of her cell opened, but instead of the burly guard she expected, Jaime found herself looking at a tiny, hunched maester. Despite the voluminous grey robes he wore, Jaime could tell that his shoulders were narrow and sloped, the hands that protruded from the wide sleeves as pale and thin as the dirty paws of children who begged on the steps of Baelor’s Sept. His face, she thought, might almost have been pretty, were it not for the fact that his sallow skin was stretched so tight across his bones that Jaime thought it would surely split. The curve of his lips was almost feminine, and stood in stark contrast with his crooked nose, which looked to have been broken more than once. Though it was hard to tell in the flickering torchlight, she thought his hair was blond; it fell to his shoulders, lank and coarse, nothing like Caesare’s thick gold curls. No hair grew on his face, however, and she found it impossible to tell his age; he might have been fourteen or forty.

“Is that a eunuch?”

Lady Stark ignored her, turning instead to the maester. Jaime had not expected his presence to be for her own benefit, but nor did she expect Lady Stark to order,

“Your dagger.”

She wondered why she was not more afraid, why she made no move to stop the blade being pressed to her throat.

“You know I could turn that on you before you could blink?” It was not an empty threat, even chained as she was, but if Lady Catelyn had not killed her yet, perhaps it would be prudent to wait.

“But you won’t. You want to get back to your children, and I want my daughters; killing me would not serve either of our purposes.”

“Does your son know about this little chat we’re having?”

“That is none of your concern. I want to see my children again, and so do you. Swear to me that if I let you go, you will send my daughters back to me.”

“You trust my word?”

“I trust that you love your children, and you know how little two girls are worth to anyone but their mother.”

Her voice was surprisingly calm, but there was a desperation in those blue eyes that Jaime knew all too well; it was the same desperation she felt when she cast Ned Stark into a black cell. She could not pretend that Ned Stark had meant much to her, but his wife had suffered enough, and she would have promised much more than the two girls if it meant she could go back to King’s Landing.

“I do, and I swear that you will have your children back, so long as you send me to mine.”

A moment of hesitation, and the pressure on her throat eased.

“Bryn will escort you to King’s Landing, and take Sansa and Arya back with him. Do not betray me.”

Jaime cast another glance at the maester, now her jailer and protector.

_We will be dead before we cross the Trident._

 


	2. Blue Sky Smiling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you deny you are a eunuch?”
> 
> “Yes!”
> 
> “I am not convinced. Perhaps if you slipped out of that robe and showed me, I would be more inclined to believe you.”

_I swear_   
_the air softened and warmed as she moved,_

_the blue sky smiling, none too soon,_  
 _with the small shy mouth of a new moon. - Demeter, Carol Ann Duffy_  
  
                                                                                    

* * *

 

The summer was not yet over. After what had felt an age spent in that dank room, Jaime was surprised to see how blue the sky was, and how warm the breeze. It pulled gently through her hair like Caesare’s fingers, but that was an age ago. Now she knew the sunlight would not last forever, and she closed her eyes to relish the warmth of it on her face.

A sharp tug on her chains made her stumble.  _Ah yes, my strong protector._

“Keep walking.”

He did not grant her more than a cursory glance, to ensure that she was moving again, before he turned away and continued trudging on.

 “Are these manacles really necessary?” Jaime complained, shaking them experimentally and watching the birds flee from the bush nearest her.  _If I were a bird, I could fly back to Caesare, back to my children._

“You will wear them, Kingslayer.”

“So you intend to fight off all possible adversaries alone, then, maester eunuch?” He wore a slim sword across his back, but she doubted he could use it.

“My name is Bryn.”

“And mine is Jaime, not Kingslayer.”

“Do you deny you slew a King?”

Just one? You underestimate me.

“No. Do you deny you are a eunuch?”

“Yes!”

“I am not convinced. Perhaps if you slipped out of that robe and showed me, I would be more inclined to believe you.” Jaime teased, but she met only sullen silence.  _Is he really so afraid of me?_

She had met men like this before, of course. They were the ones who seemed to cringe away from her gaze, but could not help their own eyes wandering when they thought she could not see. The septons were the worst; a whore was an affront to Maiden and Mother both, and they shied away from her as though her mere touch would corrupt them.

_And what use does a eunuch have for a whore? He does not know what to do with me._

“You are of noble birth, I take it?” She prompted.

“My father is Selwyn Tarth, by the grace of the gods Lord of Evenfall.”

“Tarth… some great rock in the Narrow Sea if I remember right. You must be a second son at least if your father has allowed you to wear a chain, or has he simply given up on heirs completely?”

“I have an elder brother, Galladon. What I do not have is the patience for your prattle. Do be quiet.”

“I am sick of quiet. I have had nothing but quiet for weeks.”

“And I have nothing to say to a monster.”

Jaime gasped. “A monster? Does it hide in the trees? Good grief, and here I am a blushing lady with no-one to protect me but you.” She threw her hand to her forehead in mock terror, but the maester only tugged on her chains once again, forcing her hands forward.

“One who would bear her brother’s children, kill her king, and claim the throne for her bastards is no lady.”

“Perhaps not, but I am more a woman than you are a man, am I not maester eunuch?”

“My name is Bryn.”

“What should you care what a monster calls you?”

“My name is Bryn.” He repeated. Does he work at being so dull, or is it a natural gift?

“Maester Bryn, then. Did you ever think to be Ser Bryn? No I imagine not; the weight of the armour alone would probably crush you. Could you lift a lance, do you think? I hope all the men on Tarth are not like you, or I pity the women. They must never know what real men are, stuck between rocks and ocean.”

“Tarth is beautiful. They call it the Sapphire Isle. Now be quiet, Kingslayer, or I will be forced to gag you.”

“Now that was rude. But at least you are honest, I suppose. I do admire honesty in a person.”

Bryn offered no reply, and Jaime lapsed into silence. Since he was evidently going to offer her nothing more by way of conversation ( _and what a terrible loss that is_ ), Jaime amused herself by watching the light dances off the waters of the Trident, flowing full and fast now that Autumn was approaching. They were shielded from the river by a line of trees, but through the branches Jaime glimpsed fishermen in their boats, and she wondered how many of them were finding bodies as well as fish in the dark blue water. The Red Fork was not as busy as it ought to have been; the war had taken its toll on the Riverlands, and Jaime wondered whether the people of King’s Landing would look as hollow and as frightened as the few villagers they encountered on the road.

Once, they passed a group of women washing their clothes in the river, their children playing noisily nearby. If the women noticed the strange pair they did not show it, but the children stopped to gape at them with wide eyes. Starved and dirty as they were, Jaime could not help but see her own children in their faces, and she picked up her pace.

The majority of the villages were burnt out shells, so it was not surprising to find the blackened skeleton of an inn. What made Jaime stop in her tracks were the corpses hung from an oak on the riverbank. Now that she stood directly beneath them, she wondered how the stench did not warn her long before, but the sweet, ripe smell of death hung heavy in the air all too often along the banks of the Trident.

The women swung gently in the breeze, thin rope cutting into their swollen necks. Bryn’s grasp on Jaime’s chains had turned his knuckles white, and the usually full lines of his mouth were thin with rage.

“We’ll have to cut them down.” He said, dropping Jaime’s chains to pull himself onto the lowest branch. She was surprised by the ease with which he pulled himself up amongst the leaves.  _He is stronger than I thought, I must remember that._

 “And what do you propose we do with them once we’ve cut them down?” Jaime shouted up at him, “Bury them? If you have a couple of spades hidden in those robes then very well, but otherwise I think our options are somewhat limited. There are bound to be men out looking for us by now, and if we stop here they will surely catch up with us.”

Stubborn as ever, Bryn unsheathed his knife and cut the lowest woman free. The smell intensified as the body crumpled to the ground, and the flies swarmed ever thicker.

“I’ll leave no innocents to be food for crows,” he insisted. Jaime had to admire his conviction, but they lost precious minutes as he hacked the ropes hanging from ever higher branches.

“But look there,” Jaime pointed to the crude sign hanging around the neck of the highest corpse. “They Lay With Lions. Do these dead whores really deserve your effort? After all, it was Stark men who did this.”

“These were likely no more than tavern wenches, and they are victims of this war as much as anyone.”

 “So a whore during wartime is a victim, but when there is peace she is a monster?”  

“You mistake me.” Bryn did not look at her as he continued sawing the bodies free. “I do not think you a monster because you were King Robert’s whore. Many women are whores, both good and bad; it is not in itself a monstrous thing. People call you a whore, but in doing so they forget that you are a murderess who has taken her brother to her bed.”

That surprised her.

“I’m flattered, Bryn; I’d much rather be remembered for Aerys than for Robert. There are a great many whores in this world but only I may call myself Kingslayer.”

She was spared what she was sure would have been a surly and boring answer by the sound of coarse shouting drifting around the bend in the road. Northmen. _I told him this would happen._

Bryn dropped down beside her, staring along the path towards the voices. Jaime watched his eyes. _Pretty eyes,_  she thought,  _and calm._  She knew what fear looked like, but there was no trace of it in Bryn’s face. He is determined, not desperate.

They had to be close, now, the voices were growing louder, and they could hear the clank of the men’s armour. Bryn seemed to come to a decision, striding across the path to the large oak that stood across from the hanging women.

“Stay here.” Bryn ordered, grabbing hold of one of the lower branches and swinging himself up. He did not go far before he was hidden amongst the dense leaves.

“Now take my hand.”

A thin hand poked down out of the foliage and Jaime frowned; she was not a large woman, but there was no way this shrunken thing could take her weight.

“You cannot pull me up.”

“Just do it.”

Reluctantly, Jaime reached up and took the frail hand, almost afraid to grip it lest the bird-like bones break beneath her fingers. Another hand came down to grip her wrist, and Jaime let him take her weight for a second before bracing her legs against the trunk of the tree and scrambling up after him. The chains on her wrists made it difficult to pull herself up, but Bryn’s grip was surprisingly firm, and it was mere seconds before she was perched beside him. Together, they climbed until they were hidden amongst the high branches, peering through the leaves to see the men approach the corpses lying on the ground.

They did not linger long, but Jaime felt her heart hammering all the same. There was a thrill in her blood, one that she had not felt in so long, and she felt like laughing as the Stark men passed on beneath them. She looked over at Bryn, still and stony beside her, who let out a great breath; she could see his hands shaking where they gripped the branches.

_I could push him down now, and he’d never get up again. It would be easy. I’d be free._

But even as the thought entered her head, Bryn was faltering; his robe had caught in the branches beneath him and he wobbled dangerously. Without so much as a thought, Jaime’s hand shot out to grasp his arm, steading him as she unwound the hem of the robe from the errant branches.

Bryn’s eyes were wide with shock when he turned to her.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

“You ought to get some more practical travelling clothes.” Jaime jumped to the ground, landing hard and feeling the jolt through her bones.

“You’re stronger than I expected,” she admitted grudgingly as he took up her chains again.

“I’m as strong as I can be. I suffered from a wasting condition as a child; it prevents me from developing much muscle, but I do what I can.”

There was something queer about him then that reminded her of Tyrion. Her brother had spent a lonely childhood; his stunted legs preventing him from playing with the other children. He would try, though, and she had spent hours each night massaging his cramped and crooked muscles as he wept pitifully. Perhaps it was that which prompted her to say,

“You did well, then. Thank you.”

“I need none of your thanks. I swore an oath to bring you safe to King’s Landing.”

“And you actually mean to keep it?” Jaime gave him her brightest smile, “Now there’s a wonder.”


	3. A Sword For A Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were so close that Jaime could feel the hilt of Bryn’s dagger brushing against her hip. Triumph swelled in her chest as she leaned in to whisper in his ear,
> 
> “Go on; do it. I know you want you. Wrap your hands around this pretty white throat and squeeze the venom out. Kill me; break your oath. Feel how freedom feels.”

_And here you come_   
_With a shield for a heart_   
_And a sword for a tongue – Medusa, Carol Ann Duffy_

 

* * *

 

Jaime was bored. They’d spent the last three days in near silence, with Bryn providing nothing but monosyllabic replies to any attempt at conversation. The only moment that even approached excitement was their crossing of the Trident; they had no boat (she doubted that they could get one across the river even if they had taken an oar each) and the only bridge posed the risk of their being seen. Nevertheless, they had risked the crossing, and made it across unmolested. Now, Bryn was leading her through dense forest, pausing every few miles to consult a small compass hanging from his robe. He had insisted that this way was safer, since while he could defend himself adequately enough, he would be no match for any outlaws they might encounter if they risked one any of the known roads.

She had to admit that it was not an entirely ridiculous idea, but the walk seemed as endless as it was dull. _I am going home;_ she forced herself to think, _back to my children, back to Caesare._

“Where did Catelyn Stark find you anyway?” Jaime asked, desperate to break the heavy silence that hung over the forest; even the animals seemed to be in hiding, or the peasants had killed them all for food. “Houses don’t tend to have more than one maester, and the one at Winterfell was as grey as his robe.”

“I was serving at Renly’s camp when she came to speak with him.” Bryn told her. She was surprised by his answer, not least because he had been steadfastly ignoring her all day.

“Renly? Really? I would have thought Stannis was more your kind of king: honourable, serious, dull beyond belief. Renly was so… frivolous. You didn’t fancy him, did you?”

“Gods, no.”

“Then what was it?” Bryn gave no answer, only trudged onwards. Jaime doubted that even her father had ever put such effort into ignoring her.

“Come on… what was it? It must have been something. You’re so… _honourable,_ I suppose, and his was not the strongest claim; even all the wealth of Highgarden was not enough to make him King.”

His jaw twitched at that, and Jaime smiled.

“Oh, you lost your heart to _Highgarden_ then? Margaery Tyrell is, I grant you, very pretty. Not that Renly will have noticed. Does it make your blood boil to think that he likely just turned her over and imagined she was her brother?” It was a shot in the dark, but it found its target. Though Bryn did not stop his relentless march forwards, she could see the tension winding through his shoulders and arms; the knuckles holding her chains turning white.

“Lord Renly’s personal matters were not and are not my concern.”

“You were his maester; your purpose was to be concerned with his personal matters,” Jaime pointed out, but Bryn would not hear her.

“I saw to his wounds and those of the men at camp. His marriage was his own business.”

 _He is stubborn enough to be a Baratheon himself,_ Jaime thought, _but does he fight like one?_

“You wished his wife was yours, though. If it’s any consolation, even you would have done a better job as her husband; I can only imagine where Renly was sticking-“

“Shut up,” he snapped. He tugged her chain to make her walk faster; _how he enjoys making my wrists bleed._  

“Touchy, aren’t we?”

“You will not provoke me to anger, Kingslayer.”

“Oh won’t I? Tyrion is the betting man in our family, but I’d place a wager that I could; how much would it take before you struck me, do you think?”

“I will not strike you.” _But you want to._

“You’re a man, at least in some capacity, of course you will.” They all had; she lost count of Robert’s blows before Myrcella was born, and even Caesare’s hand had flown when Joffrey first stirred within her. He had held her afterwards, when she promised the child was his.

Her father never had to touch her; he could do more damage with one look than Robert could with a thousand war hammers.

“That is not something to make light of.” Bryn chastised her, and Jaime laughed mirthlessly.

“What is there to do but make light of it? It was my favourite game in King’s Landing; how far can I push dear Robert before his hand flies? The bruises were like badges and it would be at least a fortnight before he crawled into my bed again. I suppose it would lose some of its charm with you, since I’m stuck with you whether you hit me or no. Though I am sure your noble guilt about it would give me amusement for a time.”

“Does it bring you joy to see people suffer?” Bryn asked, though it sounded as though he had made up his mind on the subject. Catelyn Stark had been the same; _why do they insist on asking me when they think they know the answers?_

“Not everyone; your Lady Catelyn, for example, seems the type to bear her suffering with stoic dignity, and that is so boring. Robert, on the other hand, liked to drink and shout and throw things at Lancel, which was terribly funny. You I haven’t figured out yet, but we’ve a long journey ahead of us.” She smiled at him, and the look she received in return could have curdled milk.

“Oh come on,” she teased, “You must have some reply to give, some cutting words to reproach my callousness. It’s no fun to bait you when you won’t dance.”

“Then I don’t see why I should give you the satisfaction.”

“I’m really not convinced you could give me any kind of satisfaction, maester eunuch, but it’s going to be a terribly dull walk if you won’t at least play along.”

She had expected more sullen silence, but instead he stopped and turned to her. It occurred to Jaime then that he had never looked at her properly before; he was all cursory glances to check she was behaving herself, never really showing more than a perfunctory interest. Now that she felt his gaze boring into her, Jaime found it hard to meet his eye.

“Why?” he spat, “You have no power over me. You carry yourself like a queen and yet you are not. You boast like a knight and yet you have no sword. You speak of your brother as though he was your husband, yet he has a wife to warm his bed. Only the Gods know why Lady Catelyn has sent you back to King’s Landing; I for one cannot fathom what exactly you are worth.”

 _As much as my father will pay to get me back; more gold than your entire island is worth._ Jaime knew that no matter how much she disgusted him, Tywin Lannister would never suffer the indignity of allowing his only daughter to die at the hands of the Starks. _Or is it as much as he’d sell me for? A few copper stars._ She tutted,

“Is that the best you can do? Come on, come on, my sweetling, the music’s still playing. Sing me another sweet song.”

“Is this nothing more than a game to you? You think that taunting me will get you home any faster?”

“No, but it might make me feel better about being your prisoner. At least when we get back to King’s Landing it will be in my power to have you executed.”

 _I wouldn’t. But I could._ Jaime regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth; she had no plans to renege on her oath to Catelyn Stark, and no matter how much she disliked him, she could trust no-one else to deliver the Stark girls back to their mother.

She expected anger from him, it would have been deserved, but it was not there. She would have relished his fury; instead she found nothing but pity.

“It is no wonder Joffrey is what he is with a mother like you. If he is a mark of your tender care then I pray for Tommen and Myrcella.”

A knife between her ribs. Her breath caught.

“I couldn’t help Joffrey. Don’t you dare presume I never tried; there was nothing I could do.”

“Is it any wonder? With his parentage, it’s lucky he’s not as malformed as he is cruel.”

She started forward, expecting him to back away, but he stayed stubbornly where he stood as she hissed,

“Don’t talk about him like that.”

“Why shouldn’t I? He is no better than you are: he’s a monster.”

“And my son.”

Nothing he had said was untrue (and she couldn’t deny what Joffrey was any more than she could stop loving him), but even the idea of this pig-headed maester from some backwater island speaking about her son as though he was nothing more than a badly trained dog had every muscle in her body tense with anger. _Rid me of these chains, maester eunuch, and you will see how much of a monster I can be._

“I can’t imagine your father is particularly pleased with having a sickly, whining, cripple for a son,” she continued, “but I suppose he loves you as best he can.”

“I do not choose to be sickly, and my Father did not make me so; Joffrey chooses to kill and maim with the power of a crown that should never be his.”

“I thought his nature was the unavoidable result of his parentage. You claim such moral superiority, but how much whiter are you really?” He frowned, and she hated him. She hated his whining voice and his sallow face and his crooked teeth. He hated his clear eyes that hardened when he looked at her. “Every other sentence you utter is a contradiction of the previous one; you condemn me for my whoredom with your vows and that chain around your neck, but when you close your eyes at night I know you see Margaery Tyrell’s firm little tits bouncing as she rides whatever it is you have that passes as a cock.”

Bryn took a furious step towards her before he checked himself. Not the way that Joffrey had, afraid of retaliation, but as though he knew he would regret the action. _He truly does not want to hurt me. More fool him._

They were so close that Jaime could feel the hilt of Bryn’s dagger brushing against her hip. Triumph swelled in her chest as she leaned in to whisper in his ear,

“Go on; do it. I know you want you. Wrap your hands around this pretty white throat and squeeze the venom out. Kill me; break your oath. Feel how freedom feels.”

For a moment, she almost thought he would, so intense was the fury that set his face like stone.

“I will not kill you.”

“Then maybe it is you who will gasp your last, sad, breaths on this road. I opened the Mad King’s throat; yours would not present a problem.”

_His neck is smaller than mine. Perhaps I would not even need a knife._

“Do not presume me so stupid as to arm you.”

Jaime smiled, wrapping a hand around the hilt of the dagger.

“Oh believe me, I do not. I can arm myself without your help.” It took no more than a heartbeat for her to pull the dagger from its sheath, and no more than a heartbeat for Bryn to clutch her arm and twist it behind her. She slammed into the trunk of a tree, the bark pressing into the soft skin of her cheek.

“Drop the knife.” Bryn ordered. His grip was tight and his voice hard but Jaime kept her fingers curled around her weapon, now pressed between her back and his stomach. She aimed a swift kick at his shins and he stumbled; the point of the knife tore Bryn’s robe, but no blood bloomed from the place. _A pity,_ Jaime thought, _but soon remedied._

However, she had no sooner raised the knife than her back was against the tree, her hands pinned above her and the dagger hanging uselessly in her grip. Bryn’s face was flushed; his breath came in hard sharp gusts and he breathed,

“Drop it. Now.”

Jaime cocked an eyebrow.

“Why not take it? You know you could.” She arched her back, slowly pressing her softness against him. Despite being thin from weeks of imprisonment, her body still moulded to his shape. He shivered, and she knew she was winning.

“Just give it to me,” he panted.

“You know I won’t. If you want it, you’re going to have to take it. Or aren’t you strong enough?”

She had never imagined he could look so murderous. Sharp eyes searched her face and his brow furrowed; he tugged at his bottom lip with his teeth, and Jaime smiled.

“You don’t know if you want to fight me or fuck me; pick either, it does not matter. They will both taste the same, and sweeter than your honour ever could.”

“And what do you know of honour?”

“That it is bitter.”

A flicker of confusion flitted across Bryn’s face, his grip loosed ever so slightly, but before he could speak, there came a cough from behind them.

Bryn sprang away from her, his face flushed and his robe twisting around him; Jaime’s skirts were in disarray, her chest still heaving. _We look as if they caught us fucking instead of fighting._

The armed men surrounded them, and Jaime wondered how neither she nor the maester had noticed their approach. _Outlaws,_ she thought, but then she really looked; these were not deserters and broken men, they were the scum scraped from every corner of the world. Blond Lyseni stood by Summer Islanders with feathered cloaks and skin as black as pitch; Caesare had told her about these men, _The Brave Companions._ The cougher was a cadaverous man whose thin, pale lips were curled in a vicious smile as he looked her up and down with red-rimmed eyes.

“Well met, friends.” Jaime called with a smile, “I am sorry you had to come upon us in such a state! A lovers’ tiff and nothing more, though I’ll wager it sounded more like a battle, for here you are to enforce the peace. May I say what a pleasure it is to see such strong, brave men guarding the Riverlands in these troubled times.”

The sound of their coarse laughter set her teeth on edge, and she griped Bryn’s knife a little tighter.

“My lady Kingslayer,” the cadaver wheezed, “I think the pleasure will be all ours.”


	4. How Did Your Debts Get Paid?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am a lioness. I will not cringe for them."
> 
> Whatever they expected of a woman, she would not give them; they would have no tears, no pleas, no screaming, only her silence.

_Oh Lazarus, how did your debts get paid?_   
_Oh Lazarus, were you so afraid?  - Blood On My Name, The Wright Brothers._   


* * *

 

 

“Some protector you are.” Jaime complained, if only to ensure that Bryn was still alive; the Mummers had not treated them gently, and Jaime was less than willing to be tied to a corpse as they rode through the Riverlands. The rope with which they were bound cut into her arms, and with every step the horse took on the uneven ground, it was all Jaime could do to keep them both seated. When they had been tied together on its back, Bryn’s face had been swollen and smeared with blood; even if he was alive, Jaime though the chances of his being able to speak were slim.

“We never would have been taken if you hadn’t decided you wanted to fight.” Bryn’s voice was weak, and thick with the effort of moving his jaw, but indignant as ever.

“And for that small indiscretion I deserve to be killed, do I?” _I should have left it; perhaps a corpse would have been preferable after all._

“You’re a prisoner of value; they won’t kill you.” Jaime wondered if his stupidity was a blessing or a curse. She might have liked to be unaware of the inevitable.

“Oh, they won’t intend to, but they do intend to rape me. I am less than keen on the idea, so death it will be.” It didn’t matter that his back was against hers, she could see the look of shocked confusion on his face that she had been so used to provoking. _He is so naïve._

“They won’t kill you.” He insisted. If sheer pig-headedness could make it so, Jaime would have been glad of his conviction, but as it was it would do her no good.

 “I will make them.” She couldn’t see Bryn’s face, but Jaime knew he didn’t believe her. _I will not have my body taken. Not again._ She imagined that the Mummers would be less courteous about it than Robert Baratheon had been.

“You can’t. You don’t… You don’t des-“

“Shut up. What could you do about it, anyway? You’ll only get yourself killed, and I don’t imagine you want to die defending me.” Whatever else he was, Bryn was noble to fault, and there was no point in him dying alongside her. _Perhaps it would be better; they might kill him quickly, that way._

She felt Bryn tense against her. He had been ready to kill her only hours ago, yet when it was not him who looked like to do the deed it seemed he hadn’t the stomach for it.

“So if you were a man you’d just sit back and let it happen?”

She made no reply; _if I were a man I’d be Caesare._

Caesare. _I will never see him again. Nor my children._

Would Caesare even want her once the Mummers were finished with her? _He still wanted me when I was Robert’s whore,_ she chastised herself, _we were born together we belong together. He knows that. He knows that._

But even if he didn’t, _he does,_ she was still a mother. Joffrey certainly wouldn’t want her near him; it was the thought of Myrcella and Tommen that began to chip away at her resolve. _Is that what you would teach your daughter? To lie back and take what is forced on her? No. Let her know her mother died fighting._

But Tommen, Tommen was only a baby; he would not understand. All he would know is that one day his mother left without a goodbye and never came back. Would that be better than seeing her leave and some other, broken, woman return?

A cry came from the head of the group; they had found the Goat. The stench of death preceded him; burning flesh and the sweet, cloying scent of rotting drifted up the path towards them. Ahead, Jaime could see the hollow shell of what she assumed had once been a sept, since statues of the gods littered the ground outside; one, Jaime thought it was the Mother, was being straddled by a man who seemed to be prying the gemstones out of the stone.

Another shout was heard as they approached the camp, and the air seemed alight with hisses of _Kingslayer._ She shivered.

Hoat was sitting at the fire, fingers greedily picking at charred meat that dripped gore onto his dirty fingers. Grease and blood oozed from between his teeth and into his grizzled beard as he smiled.

“It theemth I have captured the Kingthlayer.”

“Actually, it was them who captured me-“ Jaime began, but then her mouth was full of blood; Hoat was quick, she would allow him that much. She spat the blood at his feet.

“You aren’t in the Red Keep now, Kingthlayer.” Hoat spat, “though perhapth Robert Baratheon had the right idea of what to do with you.”

Jaime flinched as jeers erupted around her, and she hated herself for it. Then Hoat’s hands were on her, and she could feel the scrape of his nails through the fabric of her dress, thin with wear. His breath was hot and foul and it wouldn’t be coming for much longer; she was reaching for the knife at his belt…

“The rumours about her are all true, you know.” Bryn’s voice was oddly powerful, carrying above the roars of mocking laughter. Hoat turned to look at him properly for the first time, and the knife was out of her reach. Maester eunuch was determined, it seemed, to keep her body from dying. _As long as he has something to give for Lady Stark’s daughters._

“There’th a lot of rumourth about the Kingthlayer.” Hoat leered; Jaime could see the slobber glistening on his lips, the glint of the knife that was just out of reach.

“About her children; they really are her brother’s.”

 _What is he playing at?_ Bryn’s voice was shaking, but he was determined, she could see it in the set of his jaw. What she could not see was just how this little chat was serving anyone.

“All the better. Thaesare Lannithter alwayth wath a cunt; how thweet it will be to fuck hith whore.” Jaime wondered if she was about to be sick. _No point, it probably wouldn’t put them off._

“You’ll die if you do.” Jaime wondered if it was actually the maester who had a death wish, though Hoat seemed to find it more amusing than enraging, because he laughed so hard that the slack skin of his face wobbled.

“You’ll kill me, will you? With what weapon?”

“Oh, I won’t kill you; she will.” _What is he doing? “_ She killed King Robert, without a doubt. I am surprised that, for all of your travels, none of you have come across the Demon’s Cut.”

Jaime could still hear the tremor in his voice, the slight hesitation that gave away his lie, but it seemed she was the only one. Her heart hammered desperately against her ribcage as the Mummers frowned at Bryn, who continued,

“I suppose there are so few who commit such atrocities that it is not a widely known affliction. It occurs as the result of intercourse with a woman who has committed incest; they put about that Robert was gorged by a boar, but any maester of the Citadel could tell you it was the Demon’s Cut. It begins as a small scratch, anywhere on your body, but most likely on your torso.  Soon it begins to grow until the wound is open and festering, deepening little by little until the sufferer dies in agony. It is not a fate I would wish on anyone, and I’d certainly not take the risk.”

Hoat dropped Jaime’s face as though it would burn him. _Is he really so stupid?_ It seemed he was, because he was looking at her with disgust written clear on his features. She almost dared to let out the breath that burned in her chest, but then the noseless Mummer spoke,

“Fuck her mouth then; nothing dangerous in there.”

Jaime laughed mirthlessly.

“Nothing but my teeth. I cut the Mad King’s throat; what makes you think I couldn’t leave you to bleed out through the hole where your pitiful cock once was.”

He snarled, baring half rotted brown teeth, the hole in his face wrinkling and seeming to deepen, before Hoat pushed him back.

“No-one toucheth her!” He screamed. The Mummers looked mutinous, but Hoat seemed unfazed. He turned back to Jaime, his fat, wet lips stretching into a predatory smile.

“Still, it would be a shame to send you back to your Father without a little message from us.” Then her hands were on her again, and he tugged.

She heard her bodice rip, felt the cold bite of the night air on her chest, but she did not cover herself. She could not help shivering, feeling her nipples harden and keeping her eyes staring blankly forwards; she could hear the Mummers jeering, and she froze as Hoat ran the blade of his dirk gently down her chest. Her heart beat frantically against the tip of the blade; she felt for a second that it only had to thump a little harder and she would impale herself on its sharpness, but it was only wishful thinking.

The fat Dothraki waddled forward, a look of glee on his face as his dark piggy eyes roamed hungrily over her exposed flesh.  _I am a lioness. I will not cringe for them._ Whatever they expected of a woman, she would not give them; they would have no tears, no pleas, no screaming, only her silence. She felt a dirty hand scrape along her scalp and tug at her hair, forcing her head back and her chest forward.

For a second, the edge of the Dothraki’s weapon came to rest lightly on the top of her breast before he raised it high. Sunlight ran silver along the edge of the arakh as it came shivering down, almost too fast to see. And Jaime screamed.   
  


 


	5. What Blessings I Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I am going to die, I’d rather not have your face be the last thing I see, thank you.” Jaime muttered, letting her head fall forward again, and she felt rather than heard Bryn tut.
> 
> “Well the best solution to that would be not to die.”

_Tell me what blessings I have here living_   
_That I should fear to die – Hermione, The Winter’s Tale_

 

* * *

 

“Kingslayer. You have to stay awake, do you hear me? Stay awake.”

Jaime groaned. _I’m not dead, then._ Everything hurt, and her chest was bound so tightly she could barely breathe; the beat of her heart was indistinguishable from the throbs of pain which throbbed against her bandages.

“Go away,” she muttered. _Let me die in peace._

“I’m afraid that’s rather impossible.” His breath ghosted against her cheek, and she shuddered, the ropes binding her against Bryn’s chest tightening infinitesimally. She just wanted to sleep; he had kept her awake for hours pouring boiling wine onto her wounds and shouting for something to bind her chest with. Now, the rhythm of the horse’s plodding was oddly soothing, and her forehead was resting lightly on Bryn’s shoulder and she was slipping back into welcoming darkness,

“Kingslayer.”

“Bugger off.”

Bryn twitched his shoulder, forcing her head up.

“If I am going to die, I’d rather not have your face be the last thing I see, thank you.” Jaime muttered, letting her head fall forward again, and she felt rather than heard Bryn tut.

“Well the best solution to that would be not to die.”

“Why do you care?” _You wanted to kill me not one day ago. Let me die; it’s what we both want._

“I doubt your brothers are going to be willing to swap the Stark girls for your corpse.” He replied brusquely, “So I’m sorry but you are going to have to stay awake, just until we stop for rest. I need to make sure you aren’t running a fever. Look at me.”

It felt like a colossal effort to raise her eyes to his; he looked tired, the dark circles beneath his eyes visible even under the layer of dirt, but his eyes were bright and alert as they searched hers.

“You seem focused enough, which is a good sign. We just need to keep you that way. You can put your head back down if you want, just keep your eyes open.”

Jaime obeyed him; her head felt heavy as she propped against his shoulder once again, and Bryn shifted his position slightly.

“Can you see my chain?” Bryn asked, and Jaime murmured in response.

“The silver link, do you see it?” Jaime murmured again and Bryn nudged her head with his chin.

“Speak to me. Yes or no?”

“Yes.” _Though I fail to see how this will help me. It will not matter if I have a fever or not when I’ve been bored to death._

“That is for healing. Repeat that; silver, healing.”

“Silver, healing.”

“Good. Now the one underneath it; do you know that metal?” Jaime blinked and tried to focus on the links; the silver one glinted as the sunlight filtered through the leaves, but the one below it remained steadfastly dark and dull as she studied it.

“Black Iron.”

“Yes, that one is for ravenry. Now tell me about both links.” Jaime groaned; it was like being back at Casterly Rock with her wizened old maester repeat the words of the great houses, except then her body hadn’t burned and her head wasn’t swimming and she wasn’t tied to a stupid, brave, bastard of a eunuch who seemed intent on torturing her.

“Silver, healing. Black Iron, ravenry.”

“Right. And the one beneath it is iron for Warcraft.” He said nothing more, but nudged her head with his chin again, and Jaime huffed out a breath. She felt him shiver.

“Silver, healing. Black iron, ravenry. Iron, Warcraft. Must I do this?”

“Well, I could keep you awake by periodically pressing on your bandages but I imagined this might be preferable. If I was wrong…”

“I hate you.”

“I know. Now tell me again.” Jaime felt sure that, had she been awake enough, she would have been constructing a vivid fantasy in which maester eunuch was being executed in a variety of increasingly gruesome ways, but as it was she repeated,

“Silver, healing. Black iron, ravenry. Iron, Warcraft.”

It went on for hours, or it felt that way to Jaime. When she had finally memorised all the links on Bryn’s buggering chain, he made her repeat them backwards, then in alphabetical order, until she wanted to scream. If she had been able to, she would have screamed the forest down, just to make it stop, to welcome the darkness and feel the pain slip away, just for a while.

“No more.” She whimpered, turning her face into Bryn’s shoulder, squeezing her eyes shut and praying for oblivion.

“Come on, Kingslayer. Who’s going to abuse me if you’re asleep?”

 _I’m sure Hoat would be more than willing to oblige you,_ Jaime thought, but by then she was past speech. The sounds that surrounded her became vague, and the black of her closed eyelids began to swim. She knew that she has slipped away into a dream when Bryn’s desperate voice rang through her head;

“Please… Jaime.” 


	6. 'Til Human Voices Wake Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you doing here?” Bryn demanded.
> 
> “Oddly enough I was hoping for a bath.”

_We have lingered in the chambers of the sea_   
_By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown_   
_Til human voices wake us, and we drown. - T.S. Eliot, The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock_

 

* * *

 

Harrenhal’s bathhouse was a low ceilinged room so thick with steam that, for a moment, Jaime didn’t notice Bryn of Tarth already sitting in one of the large tubs. Constructed in the style of the Free Cities, the baths were large enough to hold six or seven people, and Bryn looked even smaller huddled in the corner of one, scrubbing his skin fiercely. Now that he was free of the voluminous robe, he was all angles that stuck out oddly as he reached to clean the back of his neck.

“You’ll take your skin off if you scrub any harder.” Jaime said, and he started.

“What are you doing here?” Bryn demanded.

“Oddly enough I was hoping for a bath.” Jaime replied, “Lord Bolton has invited me to dinner; though I’ve not been at court for quite some time, I do recall that it is considered bad manners to attend a meal wearing half a forest and little else.”

He made no reply, only hunched over so he seemed even smaller in the great tub.

“Get out,” Jaime snapped at her guard; “I don’t need any more men gaping at me, deformity or no.”

She waited for the door to slam closed before she began to unlace the tatters of her gown. When the rags were pooled at her feet she climbed into the tub with Bryn. The water burned her skin and made her head swim, but it was cleansing, burning the mud and blood and the shame from her body.

“There are other tubs.” Bryn protested, drawing his knees to his chest like some blushing maid.

“I rather got the impression that you weren’t interested, and I’m hardly in a position to be taking advantage of you.” Her body ached and she longed to sink down into the welcoming heat, but her chest was still bound and the linen had to be kept dry. Instead, she sat up straight and cupped the water in her hands to scrub at the dirt on her upper body. “If I faint, pull me out; I don’t intend to be the first Lannister to die in a bathtub.”

“Then don’t faint.”

“Oh yes wonderful advice, thank you. Better to rely on myself if I want to remain alive; perhaps I ought to tell the Stark girls that once we arrive in King’s Landing, I doubt their mother would appreciate you letting them become as broken as I am.”

He jerked to his feet as if she’d struck him, sending a wash of hot water across the tub. _Not a eunuch, then._ He was even thinner than she’d imagined; she could see every one of his ribs under his flushed skin, and his stomach curved inwards. Absurdly, Jaime shivered, a familiar heat pooling between her legs.  _Now I know I have been too long away from Caesare._ She averted her eyes, troubled by her body’s response, and more than a little ashamed of herself.

“That was cruel,” she mumbled, “I am maimed and bitter. Forgive me, maester; I owe you my life… and what little virtue I may claim still to have. You have protected me as well as any knight.”

He wrapped a towel around his midriff, “Don’t mock me.”

“I’m trying to apologise; must you insist on being dense? I’m tired of fighting. What do you say to a truce?”

“Truces are built on trust. Would you have me-“

“Trust the Kingslayer? The whore who murdered poor sad Aerys Targaryen, only to seduce his successor? Why is it that no-one blames Robert for that? For any of it; he was a hero when he smashed in Rhaegar’s ribcage on the Trident, and I was a traitor for stabbing a madman. I ended the war that he began, and gave him the heirs he couldn’t get on the woman he started it for, but I am the one without honour.”

Bryn frowned, rivulets of water running into a pool at his feet, “You gave him your brother’s bastards. King Robert acted out of love.”

Jaime laughed. “And what a love it was; as soon as dear Robert realised that his pretty bride would rather have died with her pretty Targaryen prince, his love turned sour rather fast. I don’t regret killing Aerys, but I do regret making Robert Baratheon king. My brother’s children were more than he deserved.”

“Whether he deserved it or not makes it no less monstrous,” he insisted.

“I think you and I have a rather different idea of what makes a monster. Tell me, maester eunuch, have you ever heard a woman being raped?” _Why am I justifying myself to this child?_ “Have you ever stood behind a wooden door, listening to muffled screaming; knowing what you would see when you opened it because you’d seen it so many times before? When Aerys rejected me for Rhaegar’s bride, he made me one of Queen Rhaella’s ladies: I was his servant just like my Father, and he would not let us forget that. I was a good little servant, too; I washed the blood from Rhaella’s skin without a word escaping my lips, I stayed with her all night listening to her whimper and cry, curled in on herself like a dirty child. Her scratches and bruises would barely have healed before he came again. It was an easy choice, in the end. The easiest choice I ever made.

“I wasn’t supposed to be in the Throne Room that night, but I couldn’t just sit in the Maidenvault, not knowing if my brother and father were dead or alive. The whole Keep was silent, and no-one noticed me slipping in. Aerys was pacing in front of the throne, his pyromancer Rossart and his last Kingsguard watching him, and he saw me crouching in the darkness at the edge of the hall. Darry, the Kingsguard, he dragged me forward and threw me at Aerys’s feet; the Mad King told me that my father’s army was sacking the city… I thought I was dead, then. I thought he’d set me on fire and watch me burn, but even then I didn’t know how far his mind was gone to madness; he said my father would burn, and all his soldiers, and all the people living in the city, even the Red Keep. I thought he was just raving but then I remembered; there had been men, his pyromancers, in the Sept once, carrying great jars. I remembered his last Hand, the one before Rossart, screaming as Aerys cooked him, screaming about wildfire in the Red Keep. _Burn them all_ Aerys kept saying, _let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat;_ I couldn’t take that chance. Even if he couldn’t have done it, even if there was no wildfire at all, didn’t he deserve it?

“Darry still hand hold of me, but barely, and it was so easy to slip his dagger from its scabbard and stick it through the gap in his armour. He was the first man I ever killed but I barely remember it. Rossart was next; he looked so shocked, like I was the Other himself manifest before him. He barely even fought. Nor did Aerys, really, he just laughed; I don’t think he realised he was dying until I twisted the knife inside him. Then he clutched at me, like some child reaching for his mother. He was dead soon enough, and I was left standing before the empty throne with his corpse at my feet.”

Dripping sounded loud in the silence, and Jaime heaved a great breath, wincing as her wound throbbed. Bryn did nothing, simply stared at her until she could bear it no longer,

“Has my tale turned you speechless? Come, curse me or kiss me or call me a liar. _Something.”_

“If this is true, how is it that no-one knows?”

“Do you really think that noble Eddard Stark found me sitting on the Throne with blood dripping from my hands and asked me _why?”_ Jaime laughed; she was shivering in the cooling bathwater but her head was swimming. _“_ I was a girl and not a soldier; I had no right. He judged me guilty the moment he set eyes one me. What right did _he_ have to play the Father? What right?”

Water cascaded from her body as Jaime stood; the blood rushed from her head as her aching legs tried and failed to climb out of the tub. The bathhouse was spinning, but Bryn caught her before she could fall. His arms were thin and cold, but they held her upright with apparent ease. _He’s gentle,_ she thought, _gentler than Caesare._

“Guards!” she heard him shout, “The Kingslayer!”

 _Jaime,_ she thought, _my name’s Jaime._

 


	7. I Saw Pale Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From behind came a soft splash, and Jaime whirled around only to see Bryn of Tarth, his hands bound in heavy chains. “I swore to keep you safe,” he said stubbornly, “I swore a holy oath.” Naked, he raised his hands to Jaime.
> 
> “My lady, if you would be so good.”

_I saw pale Kings and princes too,_   
_Pale warriors, death pale were they all. – La Belle Dam Sans Merci, John Keats._

 

* * *

 

The ground on which she lay was hard and cold, but it was not that which prevented Jaime from sleeping; Roose Bolton’s face was swimming behind her eyelids, his cold, colourless eyes examining her in a way that would have seemed clinical were it not for the feral glint in them.

 _Yet for all that, he might have been made of stone._ Jaime had tried every tactic she could think of; she had feigned indifference, she had looked up at him through her lashes, she had threatened him with her Father in honeyed tones, but Bolton’s soft voice had only mocked her in reply.

She had not known how to respond when his fingers rested lightly on her hand across the table, tracing circles on her skin and sending shivers of revulsion down her spine. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Bryn twitch, and she reached for his other hand beneath the table; it was partly a warning, but another part of her felt that if she loosened her grip, she would be unable to remain still under Bolton’s touch.

“Stimulating though your argument is, I’m afraid you are rather wasting your breath, my lady. I fully intend to return you to your father.”

That took Jaime aback, though she endeavoured not to show it.

“And in return?”

“You will tell him that the… unfortunate incident with Lord Hoat was not my doing.”

 _Is that what we’re calling it?_ Jaime’s hand tightened around Bryn’s.

“Send my back to my children and I will sing the sweetest song you have ever heard, of how I was mutilated by the man he brought to Westeros, and saved only by the kindness of the good Lord Bolton,” she assured him, with a smile that felt more like a grimace.

“I am sure you will.”

“How soon may we be allowed to leave, my lord?” Jaime asked, but Bolton only smiled.

“We? I’m afraid I could not send you off once again in the care of this man; we wouldn’t want any more misfortune to befall you, now would we?” Jaime was about to argue, but Bryn beat her to it, speaking for the first time since they had been ushered into the room.

“Lady Jaime and the Stark girls have been entrusted to my care, Lord Bolton. I swore an oath to Catelyn Stark and I would keep it.”

“I’m afraid that is quite impossible. Lady Sansa is the dwarf’s wife; only the gods may part them now.”

_Married to Tyrion? Could my Father have made a crueller choice for either of them?_

Bryn had no answer for that, and so she had bid him farewell at the gates of the ruined castle. _He is such an innocent,_ she had thought, _and Hoat will be after his blood._

She could not dwell on that now; she was going back to her brother and her children. She curled up against the cold and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to dream of something sweet.

_Naked and alone she stood, the stone walls pressing close around her. The Rock, she knew. She could feel the immense weight of it above her head. She was home. She was home and whole._

_She looked down at her body, whole once more; she cupper her right breast in her hand and felt it warm and full as though she had just borne a child._

_The eyes of her Father were hard as flint as he stared down at her. He nodded towards a dark tunnel, narrow stairs winding down into the endless blackness. She wanted to resist, but her Father’s orders were absolute, and she had no choice but to descend._

_The steps ended in an echoing darkness. She teetered on the edge for a moment, looking back at her Father and stretching out a hand. Instead of taking her hand, Tywin stretched one finger forward and, touching her breastbone lightly as though her mere skin would contaminate him, pushed her over the edge._

_She landed on her hands and knees upon soft sand and shallow water. There were watery caverns below Casterly Rock, but this one felt strange to her._

_“What place is this?” She asked._

_“Your place.” The voice echoed, a thousand, the voices of all the Lannisters since Lann the Clever, who'd lived at the dawn of days. Mostly, it was her Father’s voice, booming through the mouth of her twin who stood above her, tall and strong and golden. A torch burned in his hand and Joffrey, the son they’d made together, stood beside him._

_“Brother, why has Father brought us here?”_

_“Us? This is your place, sister, this is your darkness.” His torch was the only light in the cavern, the only light in the world. He turned to go._

_“Stay with me.” Jaime pleaded, “Don’t leave me here alone.” But they were leaving, “Don’t leave me in the dark!” Something terrible lived down here. “At least give me a light.”_

_“But you have your light.” Caesare said._

_She reached for the torch that Caesare held, but he was gone. Instead, the light in the cavern came from her hands, which seemed to have been engulfed in blue flame; it was warm, but it did not burn her, and she flexed her fingers, watching the delicate light dance along her fingers._

_From behind came a soft splash, and Jaime whirled around only to see Bryn of Tarth, his hands bound in heavy chains. “I swore to keep you safe,” he said stubbornly, “I swore a holy oath.” Naked, he raised his hands to Jaime. “My lady, if you would be so good.”_

_She reached down and touched the chains with the tips of her fingers; they melted away into smoke, and Bryn’s hands took flame just as hers had. The light was so dim she could barely see him, though they stood a few feet apart. In this light, he could almost be handsome; in this light, he could almost be a knight._

_Bryn raised his hands to look at them, clenching and unclenching his fists, stretching his fingers to admire the blue flame that pushed back the darkness. He was as thin as she remembered, but it seemed he stood a little taller now, his posture straight and proud._

_“Do they keep a bear down here?” Bryn asked, moving almost silently through the water, hands stretched before him as he peered into the blackness of the cavern, “A cave lion? Direwolves? Some bear? Tell me, Jaime. What lives here? What lives in the darkness?”_

_“Doom.” Ne bear, she knew. No lion. “Only doom.”_

_They were isolated in their tiny ring of light, the blackness stretching out around them forever. Jaime shivered._

_Bryn touched her arm. He’s warm. “Someone is coming.”_

_He was right; out of the darkness came a small figure, tottering on the unsteady feet of a child. She was followed by another; her olive skin dusted with pallor, clutching her baby to her chest. She was dressed all in white, though her gown was stained with vivid red, which dripped from her child’s head down onto her breast._

_“Elia.” Jaime whispered, “Elia, please you’re bleeding, let me help you.”_

_“You? You killed us, Jaime.” Elia’s dark eyes were black with anguish._

_“I killed Aerys because he deserved it. Your death is not on my hands.”_

_“The same hands you used in service of Robert Baratheon after he caved my husband’s chest in? Your hands are dirty, Jaime; my children’s blood is on them.”_

_“No. No, I never thought… I never thought he’d let them hurt you.” Jaime begged her to understand._

_Elia heaved out a rasping breath, the red stains on her dress darkening around her middle as she dropped to her knees. Rhaenys was screaming, louder and louder as a phantom dagger drove into her body over and over again. Jaime’s hands burned hot as she ran to Rhaenys in an attempt to quiet her screaming, holding her glowing hands against the rapidly appearing wounds, staunching the flow of blood and feeling the skin close under her burning hands. Elia was on the ground next to her, the red stain on her white dress growing larger by the second. Jaime took one hand from Rhaenys to lay it on Elia, feeling the blood start to churn and change direction, flowing back into the Princess’s body. But Elia still struggled and bucked against her hand,_

_“My baby,” she was crying, “you have to save my son.”_

_She turned away to shout for Bryn, but he was already kneeling by Aegon, laying his small, glowing hands on the child’s ruined head. She could see the bone knitting together beneath his fingers, colour beginning to return to his little cheeks. When she looked back, it was to see the blue glow of her hands flickering, the blood flowing thick and fast out of mother and daughter once again. Rhaenys’s screams began afresh, and Jaime felt herself shudder as the light in her hands grew fainter and fainter as it flickered. She felt the life draining out of her just as it was from her charges. She opened her mouth to beg once more for Elia’s forgiveness, but only cold breath rushed out._

_Then her hands were cold, and only Bryn’s burned, the ghosts of Elia and Rhaenys rushing away._


	8. Teeth Ready For Sinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The realisation was like a punch to the gut. Had she come too late? Her stomach flipped as she picked up her skirts and sprinted towards the sound.
> 
> They had him in the bear pit.

_Woken up like an animal_   
_Teeth ready for sinking – Human, Daughter_   


* * *

 

She jerked awake, heart pounding. It had been so vivid; she could almost feel the hot, wet blood still dripping from her hands. _Elia, forgive me._ Tears pricked at her eyes as she reached for her chest, surprised to find one side flat and empty once again.

Jaime looked around at the sleeping sellswords and ran a hand through her hair. "Walton," she shouted, "I want to go back. Take me back."

“What?” Walton mumbled, sitting up from where he had been sleeping on the ground.

“I want to go back” she repeated.

"Back?" Steelshanks regarded her dubiously.

 _He thinks I've gone mad. And perhaps I have._ "I left something at Harrenhal."

"Lord Vargo holds it now. Him and his Bloody Mummers."

"You have Lord Bolton’s authority, and twice the men he does. Please."

"If I don't serve you up to your father as commanded, Lord Bolton will have my hide. We press on to King's Landing."

Once Jaime might have countered with a soft smile and a gentle hand on his sleeve, but she was dirty and maimed and haggard. _Hardly a figure to inspire lust._ She wondered what Caesare would do, what Tyrion would do.

"Lannisters lie, Steelshanks. Didn't Lord Bolton tell you that?"

The man frowned suspiciously. "What if he did?"

"Unless you take me back to Harrenhal, the song I sing to my father may not be one the Lord of the Dreadfort would wish to hear. I might even tell him it was Lord Bolton who gave the order, and Steelshanks Walton who ripped the clothes from his only daughter and swung the blade to mutilate her."

Walton gaped at her. "That isn't so."

Jaime’s eyes filled with tears as Steelshanks’ widened in horror,

“He tied me down and he… he…” a fat tear rolled down her cheek, and Steelshanks blanched. By the time the sun came up, they were halfway back to Harrenhal.

When the blackened towers loomed over them once more, Jaime rode up to the gate and yelled for entry. It felt an age before she was acknowledged.

 “Kingslayer! Come back for more?”

She did not know if the voices belonged to Mummers or to Bolton’s men, but she ignored them.

“Let me in.”

“What for, m’lady? There’s no more use to be had of you, unless you want to suck my cock.”

Steelshanks Walton bellowed at them to open the gates before she could reply. _A mercy, perhaps._

When, finally, the portcullis began to rise, she dismounted and ducked under it, looking around the deserted courtyard in dismay. Then she heard it: a distant roar, fierce and grotesque. It echoed off the walls, and seemed to taunt her with its raucous glee.

The realisation was like a punch to the gut. Had she come too late? Her stomach flipped as she picked up her skirts and sprinted towards the sound.

They had him in the bear pit. For a moment Jaime did not recognise him; _they could not even let him die with dignity_ , she thought, disgusted, as she took in the hideous pick dress they had forced him into. It was clearly made for someone much larger than him, all tattered pink silk and soiled Myrish lace, and he fought with its voluminous folds as he brandished his sword uselessly.

 _That beast knows that danger of a weapon, else Bryn would be dead by now._ She had to get him out before the bear realised how little threat he posed. Though not unskilled with a weapon, sword or no Bryn had no chance against a bear the size of Gregor Clegane. _And it’s probably smarter, too._

“This is none of our concern.” Steelshanks warned, “Lord Bolton said the little maester was Hoat’s to do with as he liked.”

“His name is Bryn.” Jaime darted down the stairs, past a dozen startled sellswords. “Lord Vargo!” she called over the shouts.

“Kingthlayer!” Hoat almost dropped his wine. The left side of his face was bandaged clumsily, with spots of blood on the linen covering his ear.

“Pull him out of there.”

“Your eunuch bit off my ear! He’th worth nothing to me alive – hith death will be a great entertainment!”

Jaime eyed the bandages, impressed, before a roar turned her back around. The bear reared onto its hind legs, taking a swing at Bryn with its massive paw; almost tripping on the ridiculous gown, Bryn ducked under it and across the pit, but time was growing shorter by the minute.

“I’ll pay his ransom; whatever you want I’ll give you. Just get him out of there.”

“You want him? Go get him.”

So she did.

Gripping the marble rail with both hands, she pushed herself up onto it, vaulted her legs over the edge, and sprang into the pit. The bear turned, sniffing warily at the new intruder. _Well what in Seven Hells am I supposed to do now?_ She cursed her own stupidity; what use was she to Bryn, when she had not the faintest idea of how to fend off a full grown bear. _Am I to die for the sake of a stubborn maester?_ She had to attack the bear’s weakest part, she knew, but she would never get close enough, even if she had strength on her side. She filled her fist with sand.

“Kingslayer?” she heard Bryn say, astonished.

“Jaime, if you don’t mind.” She uncoiled, flinging the sand in the bear’s face. Its roar was deafening.

“What are you _doing_ here?”

“Something stupid. Get behind me.” She circled towards him, putting herself between Bryn and the bear.

“ _You_ get behind, I have the sword… even if it is only a tourney-“

“ _They gave you a tourney sword?”_ Jaime hissed, outraged. Bryn ignored her, trying to dart around, but Jaime tripped him. He fell in the sand, sword flying from his hand; Jaime straddled him, and the bear came charging.

She heard the whistle of an arrow and silently thanked the Gods for archers. Hoat was screaming at Steelshanks Walton, who ignored him as another shaft pierced the bear’s flank. She could not help flinching slightly as more and more shafts pierced the bear’s hide, ripping through fur and flesh, spraying the pit with blood. The creature gave a pitiful moan, and Jaime felt oddly sorry for it. _The poor beast had no more choice than Bryn, and I’d wager it was less beastly than its master._

“You thlew my bear!” Vargo Hoat was shrieking.

“And I’ll serve you the same if you give me trouble.” Steelshanks threw back, “We’re taking the maester.”

Jaime knew Hoat was arguing; she could hear his slobbering voice, but it seemed the words no longer made sense. Blood was pounding in her ears, and her legs felt as though they were jelly. She came back to herself only when Bryn coughed beneath her.

“Jaime?”

She had slumped forward when the tension had gone out of her, and Bryn was holding her waist to keep her upright, still on his back beneath her.

“I… my apologises.”

Jaime scrambled to her feet, still a little unsteady, and offered Bryn a hand up.

“My thanks, Walton,” she called, “perhaps we might have some rope to get us out of here?”

A few of Bolton’s men hurried off to the stores while the others stood with their crossbows loaded once again. _A good thing, too. The Mummers are mutinous._

She turned to Bryn, placing a hand on his arm to steady herself, somewhat comforted to see that his chest was still heaving as hers was. She smiled,

“Having rescued the maiden fair from the bear, I say we start for King’s Landing.”

“I’m not a maiden, Jaime, and I’m certainly not fair.”

Jaime looked him up and down; _pink is a dreadful colour on him._ She raised an eyebrow.

“Yes you are, and you should be glad of it; I only rescue maidens.” Jaime winked at him, and Bryn glared at her for a moment before a smile broke across his face.

“And I thank you for it; but you were well away. Why did you come back?”

A dozen quips came to mind, each crueller than the one before, but Jaime only shrugged.

“I dreamed of you,” she said. 


	9. Heart Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The King is dead. Poisoned by the Imp, they say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speedy update ahoy! 
> 
> But this is really a tiny chapter, so I thought it would be mean to make you wait. Hopefully it packs a punch, though!

_The Lord's gonna come for your firstborn son  
His hair's on fire and his heart is burning - Bottom of the River, Delta Rae_

 

* * *

 

 

“The King is dead. Poisoned by the Imp, they say.”

_No._

Her knees went out from under her and she could hear Bryn shouting for something, but she could not hear what. Someone was wailing, crying, and the noise filled up her head. She could not think, she could not breathe for the emotion that pressed her down and drove the air from her lungs.

Denial.

_He cannot be dead. He cannot. Tyrion could never hurt him, not my brother, not my son. He wouldn’t._

Anger.

_He was the King. This shouldn’t have been possible. They should have protected him._

_I will have the heads of the Kingsguard on spikes. They should have given me a white cloak. I would have protected him._

Grief.

_He was so tiny when I held him first. He was still growing, still a boy. I will never hold him again._

Need.

_Caesare. Caesare. Caesare. Did you weep for him? He was our son._

Relief.

_I will never have to feel his hate again. I will never look into my son’s eyes – they are so like his father’s – and be afraid._

Guilt.

_I wasn’t with him._

Guilt.

_I couldn’t save him._

Guilt.

_I’m glad he’s dead._

 


	10. Among Her Cloudy Trophies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Your scars… you were so brave, Jaime, and you’re… you’re beautiful.” 
> 
> His blush was fiercely red, and for an insane moment, she wanted to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me more hell than I was anticipating, but here it is, finally!
> 
> This is the last of it for now - I've got a couple more ideas in this universe, so I might well publish them as part of this series but not in this chaptered fic, since some take place much later on, and others are purely Jaime-centric. 
> 
> Anyway I hope you enjoyed reading this little genderbend as much as I enjoyed writing it!

_Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,_

_Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue_

_Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;_

_His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,_

_And be among her cloudy trophies hung. - Ode on Melancholy,  John Keats_

 

* * *

  
“Caesare.” She closed the door softly. “What are you doing here?”

“Father’s going to send me back to the Rock.” He stood tense beside her small dining table, a glass of Arbor red clutched in his hand. “It seems I’m no longer useful to him here. He wants me to take you with me.”

“No.” _He would not take Tommen from me, not now._ Jaime wished she could believe her Father would not be so cruel.

“We’ll be together, like when we were children.” He reached for her, and she went to him. It felt different when he touched her, now; she was too thin, or his hands too big.

“Oh yes, I’m sure it’ll be just the same, with your wife lurking around corners and looking at me like I’m filth, like I’m nothing.”

“Janna doesn’t matter.”Caesare’s voice was soft in her ear, his arms strong around her; Jaime wanted nothing more than to sink into his embrace, but she stayed stiff and unyielding.

“Doesn’t she? But she is the one who gets to call you husband, who would have borne your heirs if her womb had ever been fertile.” She knew she sounded bitter, hated the way it rang in her ears, yet she could not shake it. _Is that my only use? A tool to be used by men with barren wives to prove that they are not at fault?_

“Even without her, we never could have been married.”

“Why not? I have given you golden children that you could have called your own. The Targaryens-“

“ _We are not Targaryens_.”

“Do lower your voice, brother. We wouldn’t want anyone knowing you’re visiting me.” Her voice was cold, and she began to pull away, but he only drew her closer, his breath warm on her neck,

“You think I don’t want it just as much as you? I would murder my wife while she slept if it meant we could be together, but it wouldn’t. Don’t be angry with me.” He dipped his head to kiss her shoulder; Jaime shivered but pushed him away.

“No. Not now, I can’t.”

“You weren’t so reluctant when you first returned.” His hands were running over her bodice, ( _a knife, ripping, cold air, pain)_ and she brushed them away.

“That was different; now all I can think is that my son is dead and my brother imprisoned for it.”

“You won’t have to worry about Tyrion much longer.”

“What is that supposed to mean? He’s your brother; you can’t let them execute him.” _Father would, Father would sign the order himself, and smile. If Father knew how to smile. How is Caesare so like him?_ Jaime had never understood how her brother and her father could be so similar, not when one loved her and the other… the other felt nothing for her but disgust.

“Let them? I’m not going to _let them_ do anything.” Caesare’s eyes were bright and angry, his mouth a cruel twist of s smile. “What satisfaction is there in the headsman’s blade? I will kill him myself.”

“You will not.”

The slap was hard and fast, and the pain was nothing.

“You are not my Queen, you are not my wife, you will not order me.” Caesare spat, “That demon killed my son, _our_ son.”

“He wouldn’t. Not Tyrion.” _And our son deserved to die._

“Why? Because the little demon loves you? Well I promise you he hated Joff more.” She would not believe it, but the certainty with which her twin spoke made Jaime’s stomach twist.

“Lay one finger on him and you will never touch me again.”

Caesare sneered at her, his eyes raking over her body,

“And what a shame that would be; to be denied entry to the bed of a used whore who is only half a woman.”

The sting in her cheek could not compare to the knife in her belly. She wanted to scream at him, but her voice when she finally spoke was small;

“Get out.” She did not tell him twice; Caesare slammed the door behind him, the sounds crashing over her and forcing the tears from her at last.

She almost missed the tentative knock on her door, but Bryn’s voice was clear;

“Jaime?”

As she scrambled to wipe the tears from her face, it occurred to her that he had never seen her cry before. It seemed ridiculous that after all Hoat had put the pair of them through, he should see her shed tears for this. _Perhaps there are plenty of women like me,_ she thought bitterly, _hiding their aging vanity behind veils of detachment._

“I’m sure you have no wish to watch me weep for the fact that my brother no longer wants to fuck me.”

She said it to shock him; he knew it as well as she, but paid it no mind. Instead, he closed the door behind him and crossed the room to kneel on the floor before her; as he looked up at her it seemed that his eyes took up almost all of his face; _he really does have astonishing eyes._

“I know, I… I heard.” He touched her face tentatively; his fingers as warm as they had been in her dream, they ghosted over the red mark Caesare had left. He frowned.

“It’ll bruise, most likely, but not too much.”

She knew that already: Caesare was not as strong as Robert had been, but she thanked Bryn anyway.

 “I don’t understand it.” He said, simply, “I mean I don’t understand why he’d… why he wouldn’t… What I mean is that I don’t understand how anyone could find it ugly. Most women would have died from a wound like that, you know. I was surprised you survived.”

“What great faith you have in your own skills.”

“Don’t jape, Jaime. Not now, please; you know that is not what I mean. Your scars… you were so brave, Jaime, and you’re… you’re beautiful.”

His blush was fiercely red, and for an insane moment, she wanted to kiss him.

So she did.

His whole body seemed to seize with shock, and she pulled away almost instantly, ashamed. _Once a whore always a whore._ Bryn did not speak; from the expression on his face she doubted he was able, nor did he look at her. For the first time since he led her out of Riverrun, he seemed unable to look her in the eye, unable to give the reassurance she craved: to know that she had not sullied the only pure thing she had ever touched.   


“I’m sorry,” she said. “You know a Lannister always pays his debts, but it seems the only coin I have is my cunt.”

The thought made her laugh; _and what poor currency it is._

Bryn looked at her then, but it was not disgust she saw on his thin face; there was a ferocity in his gaze that she had not seen since Harrenhal. When he spoke, his voice was low and earnest, and Jaime wondered how anyone could mistake him for a child.

“You will never owe me anything, I swear it. Even if I had no vows to keep, you have had quite enough of men who think they are entitled to you.”

Jaime smiled and stood up, putting some distance between them;

“I know you too well, then; The Mummers took your chain and the Grand Maester will not reinstate you until it can be proved you did not kill Renly, but you will insist on those vows of yours.”

“I will. I know my innocence, and I will not give up on my vows because of adverse circumstances.” _There he is; stupid and stubborn._

“I know.” Jaime smiled, “I have a gift for you.”

She lifted the heavy chain and laid it on the table before him.

“I think I remembered every link; I ought to after you made me repeat it so many times. I thought if you’re going to be stubborn about this then you may as well do it properly. I know it isn’t the same as the one you forged yourself but… well it’s something.”

Bryn stood speechless, his fingers running over the twisted metal rings,

“Jaime this is-“

“Not entirely without selfish motive. Sansa Stark; we both swore oaths to her mother, and now my Father and Caesare mean to find and kill her for killing Joffrey-“

Byrn balked at that, she could almost see his hackles rising.

“I will not believe that gentle girl a poisoner. Lady Catelyn said the girl has a loving heart.” He insisted.

“And Joffrey took that loving heart and crushed it beneath his feet. The girl had more reason than any to kill him, even my brother. I need you to find her.”

Bryn blinked dumbly at her before dropping the chain as though it burned him.

“You would have me pay for this with the blood of my lady’s daughter?”

“You think I’d ask that of you? I want you to find her and keep her safe.” Jaime picked up the chain and deposited it in his hands; she wanted to be rid of both of them, to send him after Sansa and forget the entire wretched ordeal. “Take it and go; there’s gelding waiting in the stables for you, I thought it was appropriate.”

“Jaime I-“

“ _Kingslayer,_ remember? Just go; I am sick of looking at you.” She turned her back on him yet still he remained. _Persistent, as ever._

“My lady I shouldn’t have presumed… but if you truly believe she killed Joffrey, why ask me to protect her?”

_Because she has done nothing more than what I myself have done twice over. Because she was right to do it._

“Because when she was placed in my care I did not do right by her. It is my family’s fault she is an orphan, and I would have her safe, though it seems I cannot keep my own children so. Are you ever going to go?”

“I will. I will keep Sansa Stark safe. For her lady mother’s sake. And for yours.”

He bowed stiffly, and was gone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to the little gang of you who have left your lovely comments and kudos!

**Author's Note:**

> *insert shameless requests for comments and kudos here*


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